


it cost me my kingdom / your glorious crown

by helenecixous



Category: Suffragette (2015)
Genre: F/F, Getting Together, hugh is a babe i love him forever, i cant believe this is the first and probably only work in this fandom rip in pieces, secret gays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 00:47:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7131335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helenecixous/pseuds/helenecixous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Idly, you wonder how this had happened; how thousands could line the streets for a movement that had consumed you, and how on earth you’ve come to only truly care about one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it cost me my kingdom / your glorious crown

“It’s in every paper,” she says, handing you the newspaper with a small smile. You can’t be concerned about the movement right now because you’ve spent what feels like years trying to redefine yourself, trying to fit these new beliefs and feelings into the mould that used to be you. You’re glad that she looks well now, not as haggard or worried, and you’re startled by the relief that you feel now that you look at her and there’s no dried blood on her lips, no bruises kissing her skin. “They say thousands will line the streets.” There’s soft triumph in her voice, a light in her eyes that you’d not seen before, and you’re glad - glad that she hadn’t been there to see what had been the catalyst for their victory. Idly, you wonder how this had happened; how thousands could line the streets for a movement that had consumed you, and how on earth you’ve come to only truly care about one of them.

For a second she looks as lost as you feel, like she can’t forget the sacrifice that was made, and she doesn’t know whether she wants to. The guard slips from her eyes and she swallows, and you grab her hand, squeezing. It makes her look up at you, and you hope that you look as strong as you’re pretending to be. “We go on, Edith,” you say firmly, and she looks at you like she doesn’t believe you, like she can’t find a way. “You taught me that.” You need her to know how much she’s done for you, how much she’s inspired you, how she’s turned your entire world upside down. You need her to know that without her, you’d still be stuck in a loveless marriage, in a factory that would eventually have killed you, in a life that had never truly made you happy. You hold her gaze, and the way she’s looking at you makes you think that somehow, along the way, the tables have turned completely. That Edith’s now looking to you for strength and support, and you know then that you’ve still got so far to go. Regardless, you squeeze her hand again, and her fingers curl around yours slowly. You let yourself smile at her, a smile that’s more like a flicker of something akin to hope, and she leans forward, presses her lips to your cheek chastely, and then she’s gone.

 

The funeral is surreal. It’s dreamlike, light, airy, subdued, you’re drowning in the scent of lilies, and it’s all too easy to forget that you’re amongst friends. A martyr is something that none of you had planned for, something that none of you had expected. Of course you’d all had the thought that it was the only way things were really going to progress, that you were exhausting all other options, and the sashes that you all wear proudly for the funeral are not enough to hide the shameful, guilt ridden burden that lies behind all of your grim smiles.

You’re trying to busy yourself with meaningless chores, but you can’t shake the feeling that the vote won’t change anything. You know that isn’t true, not completely, but you also know that being able to vote isn’t going to get women out of factory jobs that are death sentences, it won’t mean that women are paid fairly, and it won’t mean that women will be safe from abuse and rape at the hands of their fathers, husbands, brothers, bosses. You sigh to yourself and chance a look up, and Edith’s walking past you. She’s with her husband, and she smiles at you, halting your morose train of thought. You smile back, straighten up, and remind yourself that a victory will always be a victory, no matter how small.

 

You see her after the funeral, when you’re crouched next to a table in an empty room, sobbing, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, trying to hold yourself together lest you fall to bits completely. She’s come in alone, and you don’t see why, and then she’s crouching next to you, her arm around you, her voice soft in your ear. You don’t know, and you’ll never remember what she says to you, but your voice shatters when you ramble almost hysterically about George - about how you’re a mother without a child, about how much you miss him and how big of a mistake you’ve made. At some point she wipes your eyes with her thumbs and holds you close to her, and it’s only when you calm down and come to properly that you realise she’s rocking you, and you don’t know how long you’ve both been there. She’s stroking your hair, whispering that of course you’re a mother, and you’ve got hundreds of thousands of children, that every girl born to the world will have a life better than yours, that you’ve secured them a brighter, safer future. She whispers that you’ve mothered an entirely new era, and that you’re a giant whose shoulders will be the platform for children forever. You don’t really know why, but as you stare at her, your eyes sore and bloodshot, you believe her. You believe that you’re worth something. 

 

Weeks and weeks pass, minutes and hours and days smudging into one meaningless, timeless blur. You move from place to place, and sometimes running your fingers over printed words in newspapers is the only thing that keeps you grounded, keeps you sane. The world is yours now, you can feel it changing, feel the thrum of its heartbeat that becomes more rapid every day under your fingertips, and you never knew that you had the capacity to feel so much pride that one day it would make your heart ache.

You’re folding up the day’s paper that’s damp from the rain shower you got caught in, and you lean back against the wall, letting your eyes close for a few moments.

“Miss… Um, Watts?”

You open your eyes, and a child no older than nine is standing before you, grubby and half starved, clutching an envelope. You nod, smile a little bit, and the child holds out the envelope.

“It’s for you, Miss.”

You take it, and she stays, looking at you expectantly. It takes you a while to realise why she lingers, and with a hum of understanding you dig out a spare penny and hand it over. She smiles, turns, and leaves, leaves you with the letter that’s heavy and rich in your fingers.

 

_ Maud, _

 

_ I would very much like it if you joined me for some Tea. Shall we say four o’clock? _

 

_ Your Friend _

_ Edith _

 

Before you’ve even given yourself time to consider, you’re up on your feet and moving to get washed and find a dress that’s clean.

  
  


“I know it’s simply awful of me to summon you like this,” Edith is saying, taking your coat from you and hanging it up. You move into the kitchen area, stopping as you always do to finger the fob watch on her coat with fond interest, and you shake your head.

“It’s alright,” you say, and you mean it.

“I’d hate for you to think that you were ever under any kind of obligation to see me,” she says anyway, brushing past you to set the kettle to boil, having not heard you or having chosen to just ignore you.

In return, you ignore her, and you both sink down into the chairs that had been carefully pulled out. “Where’s Hugh?” you ask, looking around, your hands folded in your lap in a futile attempt to stop yourself from fidgeting.

“Oh, he’s out,” Edith says airily, and you allow yourself to look at her for a few seconds. She’s blushing just slightly, her high cheekbones lightly stained with the colour of an early morning sky, a pink that refuses to fade or darken. She looks lovely. “My Hugh…” she says, quietly, almost as if she’s talking to herself. You find yourself feeling slightly awkward, as though you’ve somehow intruded, overstayed your welcome even though you’ve been here by her invitation for about five minutes. “He’s not like most men, Maud.”

You look at her, surprised by the tone of her voice. “Nah, I don’t s’pose he is,” you say. “Most men are awful. Hugh’s a decent bloke.”

“No, he’s…  _ Not like  _ most men,” she repeats, looking at you seriously, like she’s waiting for you to laugh at the joke you don’t get. So you stay silent, wait for her to elaborate. She sighs, stands up, smooths her skirts and goes to make some tea.

You stay still and quiet, because you can feel the change in the atmosphere, can feel how it’s thickened, and by the time Edith comes back, you’ve half convinced yourself that if you reach out carefully enough, you’ll be able to feel it, be able to roll it between your fingers.

But before you make any move, Edith hands you your cup, and you note that her hands are shaking just enough to make the cup rattle in its saucer. The colour in her cheeks has risen, and you tilt your head to the side slightly.

“You know,” Edith says pleasantly, sitting down and shifting until she gets comfortable. “Hugh and I have never been in love with each other?”

You snort before you can stop yourself, and look up at her in disbelief. “I ain’t never seen two people more in love than you,” you say, and you’re pleased that you don’t sound bitter about it.

“Oh, we love each other,” Edith murmurs, her slender fingers curling around the teacup delicately, as though it’s the most fragile thing in the world. “That’s why we’re married. I don’t think we would have done this for each other if we didn’t love each other very, very much.”

“I’m lost,” you say, taking a sip of your tea, wondering why she’s brought you here to tell you about her relationship.

“Hugh’s out with the person that he’d really like to be married to right now,” she says. “The person he’s wanted to be married to for many years before he met me.”

“Why didn’t ‘e jus’ marry her then?” you ask, “if he wants ‘er so bad? Why’d you marry ‘im, if he loves someone else?”

“He can’t marry the person he loves,” Edith says gently, and her words are small and slow and tentative, creeping into the space between them shyly. “I don’t think he’ll ever get to marry the person he truly loves.”

You’re about to chastise her, exasperated with her riddles, when she takes a sip of tea and continues.

“The person Hugh loves is a man.”

You widen your eyes, and you’re about to ask a thousand questions when it all slots into place, all makes sense without them.

“And he married me, because he loves a man, and I married him because I could never love one.” She stops, lets the words settle as much as they can.

Your heart is hammering against your chest, and every instinct that you have is screaming at you to get out, because something’s not right, she  _ knows,  _ she must know, there’s no other reason she’d bring this up because it’s not true, it can’t be true, she must have guessed, have been told, found out somehow, must be trying to trick you into saying, admitting, finally admitting to yourself and to her and then to the world that you’re in love with her. Your fingers tighten around the handle of the cup you’re still clutching, and you’re surprised when you look down and see that they’re quite steady.

In the end, it’s your eyes that betray you. Your gaze lowers and stays there, and when you look up at her they’re swimming with tears. Your vision is distorted, and you hate the way her face crumples, you hate the way she’s looking at you with so much sympathy.

“What do you want?” you manage to ask, putting the tea down, your fists clenching as soon as they were empty. “I ain’t got money, you know that.”

“Oh, dear, no,” Edith says, standing up and moving over to you, resting her hand on your arm as she kneels before you. “No, it’s- it’s not like that at all, Maud.”

You almost believe her, believe her for all of three seconds, and then you look at her properly, and you find no trace of deceit in her face. She’s kind, and good, and she would never lie to you, you know.

“Edith,” you whisper, begging with your eyes for more explanation.

“We’re protecting each other,” she says quietly, and she’s closer to you than you’d realised.

You wipe your eyes with the heel of your hand, and suck in a breath. You’d thought that you must have been the only one in the world, and suddenly you feel the need to tell her, tell her how safe she makes you feel, how  _ loved,  _ how you’ve never felt this way about anyone. Your lips are working, moving wordlessly, the words refusing to come out in any way that would convey your feelings, and she just smiles, nods.

“I know,” she says.

You want to ask her how she knows, when exactly she realised, and you have a thousand questions about what this means, about where you’ll both go with it, and you’re so wrapped up in everything that you’ve cupped her cheek without realising, and you’re grazing your thumb over her cheekbone.

She looks up at you, and turns her head just slightly to press her lips to your palm, and you know that you’d follow her to the ends of the earth. You don’t quite know what to say, and she doesn’t look like she does either, so you pull your hand back slowly, struck by how soft and warm she is. She rises slowly, places both of her hands on the sides of your neck and brushes her lips over yours just slightly, and you return the gesture with equal tenderness.

She pulls away, and she looks light, happy, young again. You glance down, and then back up at her. “What now?” you ask quietly.

She shrugs in a way that says she doesn’t know, and you start to laugh, giddy with it all. “When have we ever really had a plan?” Edith asks, and you laugh harder, taking her hand and pulling her close to you, light headed and almost delirious with relief. You had no idea it would ever feel this good to be yourself.

**Author's Note:**

> biffy clyro is my muse t b h also this is a bit rip and im sorry. i haven't proof read it at all


End file.
